


The Decemberists Series

by Loz



Category: Life on Mars
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-22
Updated: 2008-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9315653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: The title is from The Decemberists' song, which in turn is most likely a reference to the book by Keith Waterhouse. Intertextuality out the wazoo.





	1. We Both Go Down Together

Gene’s breath bursts in jets of warm air against Sam’s neck. His fingers claw at the material at Sam’s shoulder, where droplets of blood converge against scraped skin. Sam raises his eyelids and attempts to stare at Gene through the murk, dust stinging his eyes and making his throat dry. Gene drags his hand up to cradle Sam’s head.

“You alive?” Gene asks, tone falsely blasé.

Sam responds in kind. “The jury’s still out on that one.”

“What is it about you and explosives, Tyler?”

“I have a skill.”

“Clearly more than one.”

Sam’s vision adjusts and he can just make out the line of Gene’s nose, the curl of his lip. At first, he’s dimly aware of Gene’s weight pressing into him, but as he regains more consciousness it’s not so much awareness as acute pressure causing rivers of pain to lick through him. He experimentally rocks to the side, but comes against a barrier on his left and the solid frame of Gene on his right.

“What happened?”

Gene groans. “What makes you think I know? Best I can make out, soon as we arrived something went off, and here we are now, covered in rubble. And tomorrow, I’m gonna have Naughty Nick strung up by his balls for his dodgy facts.”

“Right. You are a veritable fount of information. Was anyone else involved?”

Sam feels more than sees Gene’s head shake. “Didn’t see anyone, before it all went black.”

“Great.”

“You’ve been dozing for an hour or more,” Gene offers. “Dunno how long we were here before then, but I reckon it was a while. Basically, we’re stuffed.”

“That’s not very encouraging.”

“Yeah, well, no one knows we’re here and I’ve not heard anyone scuffling about.”

Sam flexes his shoulder and raises his free hand to his forehead, fingers skimming against sticky residue and grit.

There isn’t much to be said of the area around them. They appear to be boxed in on all sides and there’s very little light. Sam can only see that which is immediately in front of him, which consists most forcefully of Gene’s hair, Gene’s face and Gene’s upper body. The rest is obscured, lost in a world of grime and black.

“Can you move much?”

“No. There’s something sharp and jagged digging into my back, you’ll have to make do.”

Sam sucks in air. “I wasn’t accusing you of crushing me or anything.”

“Even though I am.”

“A bit. But, you know, you get used to it after a while.”

“I always used to say that if it had to happen, I wanted to go out with a bang,” Gene says, quietly contemplative.

“Don’t be morbid,” Sam chastises, his tone slightly more urgent than he’d otherwise prefer to convey.

“Bet you’re more of a whimpering man.”

Sam lowers his lashes against phantom visions of their dead bodies being found, glassy eyes staring, not remembering that the action won’t purge his imagination. His body is aching all over, the pain spiking in the arm trapped under Gene and shooting through his torso at regular intervals.

“Gene?”

“Yeah?”

“Just wanted to tell you I’m glad I met you,” Sam says, voice husky and light.

“God, you’re not getting weepy, are you? Pull yourself together, simple Sue. It’s nothing to cry over.”

“Even if you are a monumental git with the sensitivity levels of King Kong.”

Gene makes a low sound of discontent. “He dies in the end. Not the nicest comparison you could’ve made.”

“I’m not the world’s nicest guy.”

There’s a grunt of agreement. Within another second, Gene’s body is trembling forcefully. Sam frowns in concern, wrapping his hand around what he can reach of Gene’s arm. “Gene, stay with me. Gene? _Gene_.”

“Found it,” Gene murmurs triumphantly, holding a hipflask up into Sam’s field of vision. “Had to wriggle it loose.”

Sam pokes the fleshy space between Gene’s collarbone and shoulder. “Stupid maniac, I thought you’d gone into shock.”

“Pansy.”

“When I awoke this morning, I had no idea it was insult Sam day.”

Gene sniffs. “Every day’s insult Sam day, you’re just too thick to realise it.” He wraps his lips around the rim of the flask opening and tilts his head back far as it can go.

“Wonderful. I’m gonna die with a man who loves to use me as both his physical and verbal punching bags.”

“Not a second before you were glad you’d met me.”

“I notice you didn’t return the favour.”

“Well, I’m not, am I,” Gene says caustically, breath rattling through his teeth with a harsh rasp. “Cause nothing but bloody nightmares, you do. Come into my station, perch on your golden throne, expect all to bow down to your majesty. Worse still, make me believe you deserve some of the respect you demand.”

Sam tries to stare into Gene’s eyes, but it’s not an easy manoeuvre, made more difficult by Gene avoiding eye contact. “You respect me?”

“As far as I can throw you.”

Sam rolls his head against the concrete behind him, smiling softly. “Which, let’s face it, is pretty bloody far.”

Sam listens to Gene’s heartbeat for a while, noticing the speed with which it thumps against him. This is the closest they’ve ever been, pressed tight in places they’ve never touched before. Sam’s mind does its best to distract him and swerves from thoughts of death to other thoughts that are considerably more energetic and vigourous. He usually doesn’t allow himself to take notice of the sheer physicality of Gene, the way his blood pumps faster when they’re entwined in entirely different circumstances, but he thinks he’s entitled to some form of luxury. He heaves in breath and watches as Gene takes another swig, accepting the offer made in the next moment. Gene’s mouth is a grim line of discomfort and anguish and Sam half contemplates kissing the expression away as scotch burns down his throat.

“What’s your dying desire, Gene? Something you wish you could’ve done or had or said before the end was nigh?”

Gene’s answer is short and to the point. “A final fuck.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow, amused and surprised that they should be reflecting on the same subject. He takes a risk only impending death will afford. “Okay, well, that one’s still possible, long as you open your horizons.”

Sam expects Gene to squirm uncomfortably, attempt to strangle him, assault him with more insults, this time said with anger.

“Oh yes, a lovely sight will greet those who eventually find the bodies. Trousers round the ankles, cocks standing full mast and blissful grins from ear to ear.”’

Sam laughs in shock, the movement causing his chest to ache with more insistence.

“What are the chances of them having a camera, do you think? It’d make worldwide headlines, that.”

“Hopefully slim, like you. You’re bloody bony, you are, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Yeah, you, last time you slammed me into the Cortina door. You did your elbow in, remember?”

Gene sounds rueful. “How could I forget? Damn near killed you, didn’t I?”

“You’ve a habit of doing that, I’ve found.”

“Says he of the infamous gun waving, bastard big bomb blowing fame.”

Sam chuckles again, altering his position minutely so that he’s closer to facing Gene. He goes to assess whether he could shift the slab behind Gene, but his hand comes into contact with something that feels terrifyingly familiar.

“Gene? What is this?” he asks, attempting to regulate the tone of his voice. The question comes out uninterested, like asking if there are any spare folders.

“Blood, I’d say. Been bleeding a while.”

“And you decided to tell me this now?”

“I wasn’t gonna tell you at all. Didn’t wanna worry you.”

“I am worried,” Sam says. “We need to put pressure on the wound.”

“Don’t know how. I don’t actually know where I’m bleeding from.”

Sam feels around, but suspects the damage is hidden against whatever it is keeping Gene in position. He can just make out sweat on Gene’s brow, running down the ridge of the indentation that cleaves it in two and often makes him look so fierce. Less fierce, now. More desperate, if anything. Eyes flicking from Sam’s mouth up to his gaze.

“Are we gonna get on with it, or not?”

“On with…?” Sam starts, but abruptly stops when understanding dawns on him. Sam licks his lower lip, the taste bitter and sharp. “Are you serious?”

“Might as well.”

“If that’s your attitude, why bother?”

Gene bends his head and kisses Sam’s neck, words muffled by skin. “Please, Sam.”

Sam can’t believe it, is sure he’s got concussion and is dreaming everything, but the stubble on Gene’s jaw makes a persuasive argument he doesn’t have the energy to combat and he pushes closer into Gene. He brushes his lips against Gene’s hair, tilts his head to give Gene more access to bared skin.

“Where’s your zip?”

“On my trousers, last I checked.”

Sam hasn’t given much thought to where Gene’s left hand has been, but it comes to settle against Sam’s own and guides it to the material stretched tight over Gene’s crotch. Sam spreads his fingers experimentally and moans as Gene bites into him.

“Vampire now, are you?”

Gene responds by digging his fingers into Sam’s leg. Sam searches for and finds the slider, pulling it down with care. Gene’s underwear gets in the way and Sam pulls forcefully, ripping a hole that ruins the fabric. He doesn’t think Gene especially cares. He wraps his fingers around Gene’s cock and strokes as Gene sighs in satisfaction.

“Ever done anything like this before?” Gene asks suddenly. There’s a trace of fear in the question, further confirming Sam’s belief that he’s nothing but a body for the illicit exchange.

Sam opens his eyes wider. “Can’t say as I have, no.”

“If we do get out of this bloody thing alive, don’t think we’ll be getting up to it in the near future.”

“To tell the truth, I wasn’t thinking at all, Guv.”

“Good, because Gene Hunt doesn’t do affection.”

“That’s okay, affection confuses and terrifies me anyway.”

These words appear to console Gene, because he not only continues kissing the juncture between Sam’s neck and shoulder, but he trails his lips over his collarbone as he reciprocates in zip opening. The hard-on Sam hadn’t bothered to conceal springs free and Sam can’t control the sound he makes when Gene’s fist closes over him, warm and tight. Sam pulls Gene’s cock how he usually likes it, but Gene is rougher, faster, more erratic. Sam finds he likes it more, the different sensation and the reality of it being Gene’s touch ratcheting up the pressure of the blood that courses through him.

He swivels his head and captures Gene’s mouth with his own, wanting it all to feel more like passion and less like desperation.

“Always knew you wanted me. When we’re out in full force, there’s a glint in your eye that’s a little left of anger,” Gene murmurs in between breaths, low and throaty. He increases the speed of his movements. “See, you’re not even denying it now.”

“Don’t wanna disillusion a dying man,” Sam replies. He reclaims Gene’s mouth and carries on pumping, quickening the pace incrementally. Gene groans something and Sam pauses, letting Gene talk.

“Why’ve you stopped? Keep going,” Gene says, sounding uncharacteristically like he’s whining.

“You were trying to say something.”

“I was telling you I’m gonna come.”

Sam curves his fingers around once more, is about to recommence, but he can’t help himself. Gene has also stopped, but his hand is still present on Sam’s cock, making it slightly difficult for Sam to get the command that he’d like over his inflection. “Just think, you could’ve been stuck here with Ray. Wouldn’t’ve had your dying desire then, would you?”

“No, but then, I’d also not have you yapping on, Tyler. Can’t be sure which is the bigger price to pay.” Gene presses his forehead against Sam’s. “If I’m to die, it’s good to know it’s beside a man I’ve fantasised about shagging through filing cabinets and floral wallpaper, tease though he may be.”

“Just to clarify – that’s me, yeah?”

“If there wasn’t immediate danger of collapse I’d be shouting your fucking head off,” Gene hisses.

Sam tampers down his grin and strokes up, though it’s less altruism and more need. He twists his hand and slides with a rapid, methodical action, listening intently to the huff of Gene’s breath as he kisses the corner of his lips. Gene matches him, near synchronisation, until Sam’s hot and frantic. He’s surprised when Gene comes before him, realising he’s lost concentration and control and is intent only on his own release.

It comes in a breath-stealing rush a moment later, Sam arching as far as he can into Gene. He cranes his neck and rests his head back, his heart thumping against his ribcage, gradually slowing, until he’s relaxed and uncaring.

“Well, that was fun. How’s about we chat about football for the next couple of hours? You can start gnawing on my arm when I’m gone.” Gene rubs his thumb against Sam’s lower lip. Sam senses he’s not as casual as his words suggest.

“Better get tidied up, first,” Sam says, rearranging them both and doing up zips.

“Never thought my star DI would be the type who’d win awards with the WI.”

“I never thought I’d end up spending my last moments with a sexist, boorish self-styled Sheriff of 1973.”

Gene lowers his head, resting it in the crook of Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s fear rises again and he places his hand over Gene’s chest, to listen for his heartbeat.

“I’m not slipping away yet, I’m just bloody uncomfortable.”

“I am glad I met you,” Sam repeats. “And there’s something I wanted to tell you…”

“If you’re about to declare your love for me, Sammy-boy, I’d start praying if I were you, because I will summon my last vestiges of strength and stab you repeatedly before you even get past the first vowel.”

Sam rolls his eyes, and is about to retort with his own cutting remark, but as if from nowhere he thinks that he can hear, very faint in the distance, a high pitched whirring noise and what sounds like a man speaking.

“Hold it for a second, will you?” Sam says, concentrating.

“…And then I’ll rip one of your legs off and use it to bash at whatever’s behind you.”

“I said shut it, I think I hear voices.”

“From what Cartwright’s told me, this isn’t a new occurrence.”

Sam ignores Gene and continues listening intently. Minutes pass by and he balls his hand up into a fist as his hopes begin to dwindle.

The strong timbre of a voice above his head makes him start. “Hello? Is anyone down there?”

“Yes! Yes, two police officers,” Sam returns, forgetting for a second about fragile structures and projecting as loud as he can.

“DCI Hunt and DI Tyler?”

“That’s right,” Sam confirms.

“We’ll get you out of there soon, sit tight.”

Sam expects Gene to say something, but he doesn’t. Sam peers and sees that Gene’s eyes have closed. He realises the chest rising next to his is slow and shallow.

“Gene? Gene, they’re coming for us. We’re gonna be okay.” Sam grits his teeth, not allowing himself to think the worst. “Guv, come on.”

A strand of light pierces the dark and Sam squints his eyes upwards to imminent rescue.


	2. Red Right Ankle

There are words Sam would never associate with Gene, would never think of uttering in connection with the man who’s more than even his own egotistical rambling suggests. Fragile is one of those words. It doesn’t fit with the image of over-awe and under-sensitive. But lying there, pale, against a stark contrast of that which is metallic and utilitarian, that’s how Gene looks. Fragile. Broken.

The blood and dust’s been cleaned up and now there’s just skin, loosely clothed. You’d never know it was explosion and confinement that put Gene into this situation. He’s pristine.

Sam stares and his throat constricts. He’s had several doctors look him over now and he knows what’s physically wrong, but it will take a while before the psychological damage can be properly assessed. Not that there’s anyone to talk to about that. In his time, his future time, he’d be forced into psychiatric evaluation, made to go to counselling sessions, called upon to talk about his feelings and thoughts. This - the complete lack of regard to mental welfare - is a bonus of 1973 that Sam had never thought to meditate on.

He may be claustrophobic for the rest of his life.

Sam turns onto his back, gazing with red-rimmed eyes at ceiling tiles and a mysterious yellow stain. He hates hospitals. The air smells grey; mixed disinfectant and detergent. There’s a constant flurry of movement that’s never explained, young buxom women walking in to pick up his arm, feel his pulse, only to note it down and disappear just as quickly. He stopped asking questions after the fourth wide-eyed stare and proclamation of, “I’m not a doctor!”

“You’ve been crying,” Gene rasps, awake for the first time. Sam jumps within his skin and feels an overwhelming flood of relief and joy.

He clears his throat and answers without turning back towards Gene. “Not for you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I have a broken rib. It hurts.”

“Good to know you care I was on the brink of meeting my maker.”

“When that happens, give him my regards and tell him I like his horns.”

Sam swallows thickly. He flicks his eyes from the indentations above his head to the indentations of Gene’s face. Despite consciousness, Gene still looks ashen, but his eyes are dancing with life. This settles nerves Sam didn’t know were distraught.

“Cracked rib, eh? Was that the blast, or me?”

“Both, I’d imagine.” Sam would dearly love to prop himself up on his elbow to ease the mode of conversation, but the pain is too intense. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been blown up. Funny, that.”

“They haven’t told me what’s wrong with you, but you’ve lost lots of blood and there’s been a fair few transfusions. You’ve been out of it for half a dozen hours or so.”

Gene pushes his lips forward, seems to consider saying something, but doesn’t speak a word. Sam’s neck aches from craning in Gene’s direction and he lets it roll back to its previous position. His eyes are once more fixed upon the stain that he decides looks like a dog pissing.

“Wrong with me? Hundreds of things, I’d say, though only six since our unfortunate run-in with a concrete slab. I think my foot’s broken.”

Sam finds his lips curving up at the corners. “You’re indestructible, aren’t you?”

“And indefatigable.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head softly to himself in resignation. He doesn’t take notice of the memories pressing behind his eyes, demanding attention. The smell, the feel, the taste. Doesn’t think of them at all. He sucks in a breath and fiddles with the sheet clasped between his fingers.

“Ray was on the phone earlier. It’s thanks to him we’re not still buried under the ruins of Mack’s.”

Gene doesn’t respond and Sam swivels to see him poised in an exaggerated expression of shock, mouth and eyes wide open.

“That almost sounded like gratitude,” Gene says in slow, measured tones.

“It was gratitude,” Sam deadpans. “We should get a nurse in here, tell them you’re awake.”

“To shut me up.”

“You read my mind.”

Sam calls, his throat scratched and voice hoarse. A nurse bustles in; small waisted, big busted. Sam watches Gene’s roving gaze with a disguise of disinterest. Gene is well practiced in the art of the traditional ogle, and not at all fussed about hiding it. The nurse, Gloria, doesn’t seem to notice, and similarly isn’t too excited about Gene being fully sentient. She asks him straightforward questions with the air of the very bored, checks his pulse, and wanders out again without giving either of them a backwards glance.

“So friendly in these places, aren’t they? Anyone’d think I’d had her over my knee.”

“You would’ve too, if you had your way.”

Gene sniffs in assent and Sam purses his lips. He returns to eyeing the pissing dog. Sam has decided to call him Rob Roy. He fabricates a life for the mutt, complete with designated meal and exercise routine, to explain away how he came to have a desire to relieve himself. He suspects his head got knocked about and he’s lost significant and necessary brain cells.

He thinks about inconsequential things – there’s a lump in his bed and he might think about letting his hair grow longer – but a large part of him insists that he’s avoiding real thinking. Real thoughts would be of Gene and the slide of his hand. Of death and destruction. He’s not sure which of the two is most disturbing. The lump is small, just under Sam’s thigh. He shifts uncomfortably.

Gene huffs in the bed alongside Sam’s, a low wheeze that tells of its own cracked rib. His bed creaks with a rusty squawk and Sam once more finds himself looking in Gene’s direction, only to see him scrabbling for the pack of cigarettes lying on the small table next to him. Sam hadn’t thought to ask the nurses to remove it, because he hadn’t really thought Gene would wake up. If he were to be honest with himself, he’d been steeling most of his strength for the eventual outcome of Gene’s death, and he knows that the possibility lingers, so in the recesses of his mind he’s still on edge.

Sam watches in abject horror as Gene shakily places a cigarette between his lips and lights it. Gene leans back against the pillow and winces, but then breathes out smoke in a billow of satisfaction.

“Perfect,” Gene murmurs, content, and Sam simply doesn’t know how to respond in less than five hundred words.

Silence stretches between them once again, an invisible barrier that doesn’t appear to have a door. Sam’s not feeling strong enough to leg it over the top, and he imagines neither of them much like the thought of burrowing under the ground, so they both recline quietly.

Rob Roy the pissing dog has a friend called Guy Mannering. They like to frolic in the park together, chasing unsuspecting joggers.

Sam would groan, but he knows Gene would breach the artificial serenity to enquire how he is. And when he knows this, what he really means is that he knows Gene would make some offhand remark, ‘are you being a Jessie again? what’s up your arse this time?’ that would shield a deeper concern.

They are saved from each other by the doctor, who walks in and immediately annoys Sam by not condemning Gene for his deathstick. He immediately annoys Gene by referring to him as “Mr Hunt” and using a condescending tone that would make Keith Joseph envious. At least, this is what Sam deduces from Gene’s narrowed eyes and tense jaw.

“You’re a very lucky man, Mr Hunt.”

“This hospital has a policy of hiring Linda Lovelace for those patients who’ve suffered near-death experiences,” Gene finishes.

The doctor is devoid of humour. He taps his pen impatiently and rattles off a list of injuries that Gene condenses down to, “dodgy back, two broken ribs, and a sprained ankle.”

“Your spine was almost severed,” the doctor responds, moustache quivering with barely suppressed scorn.

“But it wasn’t, was it?”

“No, but I’m signing you off work for three weeks.”

“You do that,” Gene says. ‘Let’s see if I listen,’ reverberates clearly around the room, despite remaining unspoken.

Sam stays taciturn for the exchange, eyes switching from face to face, lungs protesting against inhaled smoke. He’s happy to be ignored, so he’s rather annoyed when a pair of smug, haughty eyes settle on him.

“And you, Mr Tyler…”

Gene interjects. “He has a severe case of Misery-itus. It can strike at any moment, and comes with a shocking side-effect of verbal diarrhoea.”

“Side-effect? I thought your verbal diarrhoea was the cause?” Sam retorts, not allowing himself to rise to the bait.

The doctor acts like they haven’t said a thing. “You’re not in as much danger as Mr Hunt, but you should stay for observation. You’ll be off for a week too.”

Sam doesn’t care. He surmises he cares about as much as Gene does. They may never go near the station in that time, but they’ll be working. They have to bring down Nick, who seemingly set them up; and they have to hunt down whomever Nick was working for. For the moment, answers stretch before Sam like a mirage – there and not there at the same time.

“Your clothes were all in disarray,” the doctor says to Gene, almost conspiratorially. There’s a twitch that travels from Gene’s forehead to his jaw. Sam doesn’t understand.

“That tends to happen when they’re ripped to shreds by bomb blasts, I’ve found.”

“Ah yes, but not this particular item of clothing.” The doctor leans forward and quickly, ever so perceptibly, casts a glance Sam’s way. “Your underwear, Mr Hunt.”

Sam cottons on to the doctor’s attempted discussion with the wary trepidation of Gene’s actions. Gene moves his second cigarette to his lips with slow calculation, where usually rash urgency would suffice.

Gene’s face has set into an immaculate mask of impassivity. “Anyone’d think it’s illegal to take a piss. Should I get my cuffs?”

The doctor is far from satisfied by this response to the question never uttered, but he accepts it anyway. He steps away from the bed and says when he’ll next come to examine them both. His footsteps echo against the tiles as he walks away to unsettle his other patients. Sam stamps down the uprising terror churning in his stomach and bile in his throat.

Rob Roy and Guy Mannering aren’t like the other dogs in the neighbourhood and this creates for them many unpleasant circumstances.

Gene doesn’t speak to Sam for the rest of the day. Sam doesn’t blame him. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to sleep, but all he gets are twists and turns in an elaborate labyrinth of neuroses. They almost died, together. Gene almost died, alone. Sam almost lost Gene to blood loss, but now he’s losing him to societal expectations.

The worst thing, Sam reflects, when he allows himself to reflect, is that it’s not just 1973 that makes this so difficult. Being a gay cop in his era of expertise isn’t exactly a bed of roses. He remembers one of his early friends on the force – the magical time when he’d had friends, when he’d relaxed enough to let others know a little about him. Josh had been terrified his fellow recruits would find out he batted for the other team. And Sam hadn’t understood his remarks about disenfranchisement and what it meant to feel adrift in a sea of normality, because he’d never realised that he didn’t belong either. Josh had been treated like a second class citizen, spat on, beaten --- and they were supposed to be more enlightened times.

Not that Sam’s a gay cop. One attraction does not a lifestyle make. That’s what he keeps repeating to himself. He may have his own prejudices to struggle over.

When Sam and Gene do talk over the next few days, it’s usually about the quality of the hospital food. Or rather, lack thereof.

_“This is somehow worse than the crap they serve down station canteen.”_

_“I think Gwen does a good job on a low budget.”_

Ray, Chris and Annie come to visit with toiletries, clothes, a bottle of scotch, and a lot of noise. They tell Gene not to open the scotch until he’s feeling better, so he arm-wrestles Chris to prove a point. He wins, of course, because Gene Hunt is the kind of man to do all in his power to maintain expectations.

It turns out Nick has gone missing, which Sam supposes he shouldn’t find surprising, but does anyway. Gene’s legendary instincts failed him this time and the betrayal cuts close. Armed robbery has never seemed so threatening before, and that’s a worry in itself. They need to get these blokes. If the bastards are only too happy to have two high-ranking police officers lured into such a situation, chances are they don’t hold much stock by the value of human life.

On the fifth day after Sam’s world exploded, Sam comes back from an x-ray to have a nurse relay a message from Gene that fills every bone in his body with a deep, yearning dread.

_“If Tyler worries his pretty little head about where I’ve gone, tell him he’s a bleeding detective and should figure it out himself.”_

He’s gone somewhere obvious, then. Which makes one of four places. The station, the pub, home, or the place of their near entombment. Sam knows where he’d go.

He glowers long and hard to be allowed to dismiss himself from the hospital. If Gene managed it, he can too. The nurses eventually give up when Sam starts rattling on about specialised inspections and witnessing actions that rhyme with half-inching. He breathes in deep with victory and immediately regrets it when several of his muscles twinge. Catching a cab is a simple, if expensive, affair.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam says. The cold wind whips his hair and makes every inch of his frail, injured body ache.

“I’m normally not one to dwell,” Gene says back, not bothering to see who delivered the statement. He’s continuing a conversation they’ve never had, but Sam can assume what went before.

“Gene, you’re risking your life being here.”

Gene gestures erratically at the grey wreckage. “How can I? There’s nothing left to destroy.”

“You’re not well enough to be out and about.”

“By that token, neither are you.”

Sam steps forward and places his hand on Gene’s arm. “No, I’m not. And I wish I wasn’t. I’d give anything to be in a warm bed right now.”

“Spent the last five days in bed. It’s not as cosy as you try to make it sound.”

Sam follows Gene’s line of sight and feels a shudder pass up his spine that has nothing to do with Manchester ice. He digs his free hand deep into the pocket of his new, inferior leather jacket.

“I’ll take you home,” Sam says, as if the worst that’s happened is that Gene’s had too much to drink – a perfectly natural and anticipated event where Gene’s concerned. But Gene shakes his head and stays resolute.

“I’m gonna catch ‘em, Sam. I’m gonna grind their bones to dust.”

“Fee, fi, foe, fum?”

Sam looks up to see an intense green glare piercing through him. He levels out his forced smirk.

“If we’re gonna do that, we’re gonna need to recuperate. And that means no stomping around until cartilage and bones are well-knit. It means no subjecting your back to strenuous activity. The worst you could do in your current state is kill with the stench of your breath, and whilst I’ll make no claims there’s not a certain level of seizure-inducing toxicity there, it’s not quite enough, is it?”

Gene’s arm is warm against Sam’s palm. Sam feels like drawing Gene in close, dragging his hand into his hair. He could wrap Gene, bandage him up, make him feel less of a failure.

Gene stares blankly, then moves away. “Recuperation. Does it include a drink?”

“It shouldn’t.”

“But can it?”

“Well, there’s really no stopping you, so I guess it must.”

As they step away, Sam gathers up the last shreds of his defences and tells himself that everything will be alright. If numerous physical injuries aren’t enough to crack Gene, then a few mental ones won’t do much either, and he’s probably worrying over nothing. Not one to dwell. Not one to be weak. Not one to care too much, one way or the other; Gene Hunt doesn’t do emotional turmoil.

But Gene leans into his touch. He nudges his shoulder against Sam’s and hobbles by his side, and for some reason, this impresses upon Sam a strong indication of a condition Sam would never associate with Gene. Fragile. Broken.


	3. Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect

The curtains are a thick green, soft to the touch. They haven’t been washed of dust for a long time and Sam coughs as particles attack him from all sides.

“I said close ‘em, Tyler, not fondle ‘em.”

Sam draws the curtains together and spins on his heel to see Gene on the sofa, glowering in his direction. He doesn’t look the picture of health. Quite the opposite, actually; sitting awkwardly, his ankle bound, a deep cut in his forehead and grimace on his face.

Sam stumbles over, wincing. He collapses beside Gene, their knees knocking together. “We’re in a right sorry state, aren’t we?”

“Like the after-effects of a late night bender enjoyed by Mickey Mouse and Malcolm Muggeridge.”

“We should really go back to the hospital,” Sam starts. He holds his hand up in a conciliatory gesture as Gene’s fingers curve around as if to strangle him. “Wait… wait, I was just gonna say ‘but we’re not.’ Okay?”

“Good. Now, be a good lad, and rustle us up something to eat.”

Sam juts his chin forward. He’d cross his arms, but he’d rather not tempt fate.

“How am I suddenly your lapdog?”

“Nothing sudden about it. Soon as you arrived on the scene, you became my pet, to do as I deem fit. Fetch the newspaper, chase away bastard cats-”

“Shit all over your nice cream loafers,” Sam bites back. He leans deeper into the sofa and adopts an airy demeanour. “Lick you all over?”

Gene’s head whips around so quickly, Sam thinks it may spin off.

Sam takes that moment to have a proper look at the room they’re in – the spartan minimalism he wasn’t expecting. There are no obligatory vintage knick knacks on spare shelves and surfaces.

“Are you alone?” Sam asks, the words coming out before he can think about them.

“No, I have you here, haven’t I?” Gene retorts.

“I meant-”

“I know what you meant. And yeah, I’m alone. No skin off my nose, but making a song and dance of it would raise eyebrows, so I didn’t see to mention it.”

Sam shakily stands on tired legs and wanders into the kitchen. The fridge is actually stocked with butter and eggs, which surprises him. Not much else, of course, but then, the one in his own flat’s bare. There’s bread in the breadbox. Tins of soup and baked beans. The saucepans are easy to find and it’s a simple case of opening up a couple of cans and watching them simmer away as he prepares the toast.

Two plates, two mugs of tea; he balances it all deftly as he makes his way back into the living room. Haute cuisine at its finest.

Maybe not, but it’s food, at least. And not made by old biddies and young dollybirds in hairnets.

The gratitude is obvious in the gleam of Gene’s eye as the plate is set atop a book on his lap. They eat in a companionable silence unlike the one they shared between hospital beds. It’s the quiet of munching mouths, too consumed with consuming to offer observation.

When they finish, Sam stacks everything neatly and rests for a while, wondering if he should go back to the flat now that he’s seen Gene home safely. He doesn’t think it’s possible for Gene to get into any more trouble, but he’s always had a flair for underestimation. Gene seems to sense that these are the thoughts flurrying through Sam’s mind, because he lights up a cigarette and gestures to the door.

“You can go, if you like.” He tilts his head back. “Don’t have to, of course, if you’re not feeling up to it. You could stay here, sleep on the sofa. Fine by me.”

After having spent the better part of six days in Gene’s company, Sam supposes he should be clawing at the walls to escape, but he’s not. The thought of not being with Gene, even during their most uncomfortable moments, unnerves him. Being by Gene’s side feels as natural as note-taking or pontificating.

“I will stay here, if you don’t mind?”

“Wouldn’t offer if I did, Sammy-boy.”

It’s only just gone seven, so there’s no point in discussing sleeping arrangements. Sam closes his eyes and lets his chest expand with air, breathing it all out in one slow, continuous exhale.

He senses more than feels Gene shift closer. The sofa dips a little and there’s the warmth of Gene’s body-heat, but that’s it, until Gene’s lips are suddenly on his and Sam doesn’t know which way is up. Sam’s eyes fly open and his hands clutch automatically around Gene’s shoulders, but gently, so as not to cause damage.

The kiss is forceful and tastes of tomato sauce. _‘This is a big mistake,’_ Sam thinks, but doesn’t say. He rearranges himself until they’re intertwined and kisses Gene back as vigorously as he wants to. Days of pent up frustration; more than sexual, but undeniably tinged with a constant flickering memory of a stolen moment under rubble, cause him to lose any notion of inhibitions and lick and nip furiously, pushing his tongue insistently into Gene’s mouth.

One of Gene’s hands grips Sam’s hip and pushes him back. Sam stops, is going to move away entirely, but then Gene pushes him down until Sam’s kneeling on the floor by the sofa, not relinquishing the back of Sam’s head, his fingers entwined in his hair. Gene Hunt doesn’t do subtle.

Sam thinks he should probably start arguing, now - say something witty and caustic - but everything about Gene smacks of urgency and need and Sam doesn’t know why he wants to satisfy him, but he does. He pulls Gene’s zip down – familiar and oddly soothing – and licks his lips as he contemplates his next response. He’s never done this before. He’s quick to learn. Gene spreads his legs wider. Sam adjusts his position until his ribs give him only a dim ache and not sharp pain.

Sam pumps Gene tentatively once or twice, then licks a broad stripe from root to tip. He places his hand at the base of Gene’s cock and takes him into his mouth, imitating the actions of girlfriends gone by. The sensation of Gene hot and thick in his mouth is like none other. Sam’s eyelids flutter shut as he goes as far as he can and then pulls off again. Gene’s fingernails scrabble against his scalp and his breath comes out in a harsh wheeze as Sam repeats the movement, getting acclimated to the feeling. He speeds up, listening to the small grunts and rocking with minute thrusts, until he knows Gene’s close. He swipes his tongue over the tip.

Gene pulls out and comes over Sam’s cheek, startling Sam into looking up. When he does he’s mesmerised by the expression on Gene’s face; skin flushed, lips parted, and a burning intensity Sam’s never seen before. Gene blinks, once, then closes his eyes for good, arching his head back. Moments later he staggers to his feet, awkwardly collecting his clothing, and stomps up the stairs with the co-ordination of a three-legged elephant. Sam doesn’t try to stop him, not even to ask where the linen closet is. He clumsily climbs back onto the sofa and puffs out air. He strokes his hand idly against his crotch, but he doesn’t want to bring himself off thinking about Gene when he’s so close, so he wipes his face over with his sleeve instead.

Sam doesn’t sleep during the night; the sofa is uncomfortable - one of the springs is loose. His aches and pains are aching and paining him more than usual. He can’t stop reflecting on Gene and what they now have and how many problems it creates and how what he wants most of all is to sail up those stairs and fuck Gene until he’s incapable of formulating an insult, let alone inclined to make one. A lot of the time when Sam closes his eyes, he half-thinks he’ll never open them again. The living room light stays on.

At eight he thinks it’s acceptable to be banging about making noise, so he slouches towards the kitchen and prepares tea and toast. Not very inventive, perhaps, but guaranteed to appease. He’s seen Gene awake at eight before, he knows it’s not an impossibility. He sits at the kitchen table and spreads jam with skilled precision, pushing it right to the very edge.

The kitchen is more comfortable than the living room. It looks lived in. There are burn marks and indentations across the table, scuff marks on the floor. Sam surveys his surroundings as he brings the rim of his mug to his lips and tilts it. He’s picked up the wrong mug, gone for the one with an abundance of sugar, but doesn’t stop sipping.

Gene crashes into the room, elegant as ever. He hardly looks at Sam and takes his toast without a word of thank you.

“We should talk,” Sam says, having a fair idea that the suggestion will be shot down in flames.

Gene sniffs, every facet of his response brimming with disdain. “Talking’s for wankers.”

“Yeah. So we should talk.”

Gene tastes some of his tea, grimaces and grabs the canister. He places three spoonfuls of sugar into the drink, then adds in some scotch from one of his many flasks. Sam attempts to keep his face straight, but can’t help his lip curling up in disgust.

“Really, Gene,” Sam begins again. “We need to decide what we’re going to do… about us.”

Gene slams his mug down. “There is no ‘us’.” He spits the next part. “I’m not a poofter.”

“I know. But, you know, there’s a sliding scale...”

“There’s a sliding _nothing_.”

Sam warms up to the quarrel, spurred by confidence and adrenaline. “You wanted me.”

“I was saying what you wanted to hear, Samantha. You weren’t playing properly and I needed to give you some motivation,” Gene sneers.

Sam’s been slapped in the face by Gene before, so he knows the sting and the humiliation, but Gene is even more adept with words.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to. Doesn’t stop it from being true.”

Sam’s nails dig into his palms. The ache of his cracked rib thrums persistently. He takes a deep breath and holds his space, forcing Gene into eye contact.

“I know this isn’t easy,” Sam says, voice so quiet it hardly sounds over the electric whirr of the refrigerator.

“Easy,” Gene echoes contemptuously. His eyes are flint as he stares at Sam. “Very little in life is _easy_ , Tyler, though it’s obvious someone forgot to pass that message along. You have to be joking if you think there’s a ‘this’ that should be talked about. Forget it ever happened, for God’s sake. Let us live in peace.”

“Oh, forget it? Forget you had your hand around my cock, pushed your tongue into my mouth. Yeah, that’ll be easy. Dead easy with you fucking _staring_ at me the way you do.”

“Didn’t I say? ‘Don’t get your girly little hopes up.’ I’m fairly sure I did.”

“Yeah. And then, a week later - just last night, in fact - you were snogging me on your sofa. And not exactly complaining as I blew you off. In fact, you looked almost pained you couldn’t return the favour. So don’t go talking to me about random selective amnesia.”

Sam hasn’t asked for this. Never once thought to himself it would be a great idea to grow attracted to his superior officer. If he had any sense at all, Sam would fall neatly in love with Annie, but Sam’s far from sensible, despite what he likes to think. He’s increasingly annoyed that Gene seems to think he’s only too happy with the situation. But there _is_ a situation, and he’s not going to ignore it just to be convenient.  
  
“Last night was the last time,” Gene says, but the way he says it is far from convincing and Sam can see his façade starting to crack.

“Okay, that’s good,” Sam asserts. “Best that way anyway.” He stands purposefully close to Gene, turning his head until their cheeks are almost touching. “No shagging through filing cabinets and floral wallpaper.”

Gene voices a choked off sound and grasps Sam’s arm in a vice-like grip, clenching his teeth and setting his shoulders. He winces and Sam thinks it’s probably physical as opposed to psychological torment.

“You can’t judge a man by the words he utters when he’s near death,” Gene rasps out.

“On the contrary, I think that’s the only time true words are ever spoken.”

There’s a knocking at the front door. Sam sees Gene’s obvious relief and is tempted to ignore it, to arch into Gene and take what Gene’s not offering by force, but he steps away and gives him space. He goes to open the door in resignation.

“They said you’d gone home,” Chris proclaims from his spot on the doorstep, as if this should be news. Sam holds back a glare and nods, dully.

“Yeah. There’s no hospital in the world that could keep him,” he says, sticking his thumb back behind him, hoping Chris understands.

“Came to reassure you, like. You’re not supposed to go near the station, the Super forbade it, but Ray and me have all this intel, and it doesn’t seem fair to let it go to waste. Annie’s covering for us.”

This is the last thing Sam wants. He doesn’t particularly give a damn about the bastards who placed him here, only that they did.

“Come in, Chris. Tell us what you’ve found.”

“Ray’s parking the Guv’s Cortina. Better wait a bit.” Chris walks into the hallway, ducking his head deferentially. “You look like shit, Boss, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“You’ve said it now, so I guess it’d be unfair of me to say no.”

“Who is it?” Gene barks.

“Just me, Guv,” Chris yells back, as Gene lumbers into view at the other end of the hall. Sam brings a hand up to his head and rubs.

Ray appears with a large bottle of scotch and brash attitude and Sam bitterly thinks about the joys of male bonding. They regroup in the living room, four warm bodies pumping testosterone. Sam figures he shouldn’t be shocked when Gene offers everyone a tipple and Ray accepts. Chris blames his refusal on dodgy cornflakes. Sam mentions alcohol poisoning and presses into a chair.

“Nick’s still not been found,” Ray announces, downing his scotch in one go.

“Did you check where he’d been before?” Gene asks. Sam would berate him for asking the obvious, but then considers who he’s asking.

“Yeah, ‘course. Been round his mam’s, all his old haunts, no one’s seen head nor tail of him.”

“He’s dead,” Sam says, matter-of-factly. “Think about it --- we know Nick’s not as bad as all that, really. Not a killer. Not the type to wilfully bring about someone’s death. It’s not his form. So he was set up and then got rid of once his usefulness expired.”

Gene raises his eyebrows, managing to avoid glancing Sam’s way as he comments. “The way your mind works hammers a shudder up my spine.”

Sam ignores him. “Maybe Mack’s wasn’t such a red herring. We should look into old employment records.”

“Already done that, boss. Have them all here for you.”

“Oh.” Sam’s surprised and unsure whether he’s happy or deeply depressed. He settles for ambivalent. “Great!”

“And we’ve a long list of informants for you, Guv --- see if you can’t beat some sense into ‘em,” Ray continues.

“How do we get hold of them?” Sam asks.

“Around their bloody necks, if there’s such a thing as justice,” Gene answers.

“I mean that neither of us is in a fit state to drive.”

Ray looks impressed with himself. “Thought of that too. We’ve hired you a chauffeur.”

Gene frowns. “We don’t have the cash.”

“Well, when we say hired, we really mean ‘convinced’ and when we say ‘convinced’, we really mean ‘forced’,” Chris says with a grin.

“I’m not putting up with them in uniform sniggering behind my back.”

“Don’t have to. It’s that deaf bloke.”

“Leonard?” Sam asks pointlessly, automatically feeling sorry for the man who had to put up with Ray and Chris forcing him into an association he probably never wanted to make again, and then doubly sorry because Leonard would have to put up with the atmosphere brewing between himself and Gene.

“Yeah, him.”

“Fan-bloody-tastic. Not content with seeing me crushed, you want me to crash to death with an invalid and tightarse here.”

“He’s deaf, not blind, there’s no reason for us to crash, you lunatic.”

“With that wet-wipe? We’ll crash.”

“Leonard should be here in an hour,” Chris interjects. “And then you can get started! Bet you’re best pleased.”

Sam stands abruptly and instantly regrets it. He contemplates knocking everyone out and making a run for Mexico. But it would be futile and laboursome and really all he wants to do is stay where is, making a few minor changes. Gene’s attitude, for one. The entirety of 1973 for another.

There had been a time Sam had thought he was in control of all of the elements in his life, but he’s had to accept that everything spins upside down and side-to-side. No control. None at all. He’s at the mercy of fate. And Gene.


	4. Of Angels and Angles

Sam gives Leonard a small, commiserating smile that takes a lot of energy to muster. Leonard returns it. They stand side-by-side as Gene awkwardly shrugs on an anorak and refuses help. Chris had managed to find a leather jacket in Sam’s size, but no camel-hair coat for Gene. The torrent of scorn could fill an entire canal.

“You could have _asked_ me for help, you know,” Leonard says, without bitterness.

“This wasn’t my idea. Trust me. Last thing on my mind was bringing an innocent man into the equation.”

Last thing on Sam’s mind was bringing any man into the equation. Last thing on Sam’s mind was the equation.

Sam clutches onto a few of the folders from Mack’s, to skim through if and when they’re to be holed up in the car, waiting for their ‘informants’. Sam has cast a glance at the list and most of them are petty crims Gene’s had contact with before. Physical contact, with clenched fingers and upper body arcs.

“Is his wife going to approve of this?” Leonard asks.

Sam flicks a glance his way and shakes his head. “Up in Newcastle with her sister,” he lies. It might not be a lie, it could be the truth for all he knows. Sam finds it interesting that Leonard thinks to ask this straight away, but it never occurred to him to ponder just where Gene’s wife was. There are lots of things Sam never thinks about; he wishes he could be that way on certain pressing issues in his life.

Gene looms at the doorway. “Right, Dorothy and Tin Man, let’s get at it. If we finish up quickly, you’ll have time to dance with the Munchkins.”

“What’re you after, Guv? A heart? A brain? Some courage? Or all three?”

Gene doesn’t look at Sam, Sam doesn’t look at Gene, and Leonard looks in at the Cortina window.

“We taking this, then?”

“What? No bloody way!” Gene shouts. Leonard recoils in shock, clutching his hearing aid.

“I’ve only a two-seater,” Leonard explains, nervously, biting his lower lip.

“Those stupid, poncing pillocks,” Gene mutters, mouthing a few more choice words besides, which Leonard raises his eyebrows at. He places his palm close to Gene in an act of extreme bravery, requesting the keys.

The first on the long list of those to ‘coax’ into giving ‘information’ is Dastardly Derek, an old friend in the sense that he’s not a friend at all and he’s actually quite young, but he’s been on the radar for a while. He claims to know nothing, even when stared down by three men. Leonard was told to wait in the car, but he doesn’t. Gene doesn’t believe Derek, but he doesn’t push it – there’s plenty of other leads and Sam has a feeling he’s already feeling the effects. Sam wraps up any concern he harbours in a little box and flings it into a cupboard at the back of his mind. It serves Gene right if he’s feeling like crap. He decided to go on this wild goose chase.

Five blokes, two lengthy stony silences, and one disgruntled Leonard later, it’s nearing lunchtime. They stop outside a chippie owned by the seventh name on the list and a place to get something to eat.

“Hurry up, deaf-aid, we’re not in some kind of dawdling competition, first prize Diana Rigg’s knickers,” Gene says, arm slung around Leonard’s shoulders as his ankle’s finally given up the ghost.

“If you’re gonna insult Leonard, you could at least use his name.”

“It’s a stupid name.”

“It’s okay, DI Tyler,” Leonard intones, resigned. He half-shrugs. He’s used to being treated like the muck found on the bottom of a shoe.

“No, it’s not,” Sam responds. He pokes his index finger in Gene’s direction as he walks. “You’re gonna apologise, Gene.”

“Dear Leonard, I’m sorry you’re an ugly weasel with a nasty little ‘tasche. I’m even more sorry you’re deaf and dumb, though sadly not incapable of speech. I couldn’t be sorrier that you’ve been behind the wheel of my Cortina, driving like a div. And most of all, I’m sorry I’ve any idea who the bloody hell you are.”

Sam’s blood boils and he feels physically sick. “You’re a fucking git.”

Gene laughs his contempt away. “Next in the headlines; Gene Hunt’s an unpleasant scrote - new evidence found.”

Sam clenches his teeth and keeps his eyes fixed on the door to the chippie. He almost can’t believe he ever feels anything other than disgust towards Gene – a man with a vocabulary that outshines Gordon Ramsay.

Leonard is stoic, Sam’s pissed off, but Gene seems amused more than anything. He convincingly plays his hard man act against Steve the Skeeve. He swings the short, fat man into a wall and holds him there, hand around his neck.

“You’re gonna tell me everything I wanna hear, Stevie, or your hand’s gonna have an unfortunate rendezvous with a hotplate.”

“Don’t know what you mean, DCI Hunt.”

“What do you know about big loud bangs that rattle windows, Stevie?”

“Nothing! I swear.”

Gene tightens his hold, lighting up a cigarette with his other hand as he does so. “Let’s try that again. What do you know about the acquisition of explosives, Stevie? See, a little birdie’s informed me that you’re the man to go to if you want a bit of bing bam boom, all due to your past life as a construction worker who’d magical wandering fingers.”

Stevie begins to claw at the air, his eyes bugging out of their sockets. Gene relaxes his grip.

“Two blokes come into the shop the other day, yeah? Asking me much the same thing. I turn ‘em away ‘cause I’m a good and honest citizen, DCI Hunt.”

Gene barks laughter, puffing smoke in Stevie’s face.

“And I haven’t got nowt,” Stevie concludes.

“We need names,” Sam says quietly, leaning against the counter.

“Billy Baker. That’s the only one I know.”

“Good boy,” Gene states, patting Stevie on the head with more force than necessary. “Now, we’re gonna have a lovely lunch of haddock and chips for three. Tyler’s paying.”

Sam mumbles to himself that Gene could at least have had the decency to threaten Steve into giving them the food for _free_ as he digs his hand into a pocket and rifles for the appropriate change.

There’s no address for Billy Baker. They ask around, but no one else has heard of him. They go after some other names that they can assail without too much fuss, but come up empty.

It’s long past dark by the time Leonard timidly states he has a girlfriend to get back to, but that he’ll be at DCI Hunt’s bright and early in the morning. Sam finds himself attempting to keep his shock well and truly concealed.

“Actually, Leonard, drop me off at my flat,” Sam says. “And could you pick me up tomorrow, after you’ve collected Gene?”

“No worries, DI Tyler.”

Gene doesn’t acknowledge this exchange. When the car pulls up, he doesn’t say goodbye. He gestures rudely at Leonard and shouts something about ‘shifting it’. Gene Hunt doesn’t do polite.

Sam takes a deep breath and trudges up his steps, going to his door and turning the key. The flat is the same as when he left it; a sty that swine would gladly wallow in. It hasn’t occurred to him before that his flat is actually very small, but this is painfully obvious as he takes four stilted strides to the kitchenette and pours himself a glass of tap water and fine Manchester sludge. He’d kill for a bottle of Evian.

Sam crawls onto the cot and stares at the ceiling, meticulously detailing the various statements they’ve received. Few of them are useful at all. He knows this. It doesn’t stop him from working over each sentence, each phrase, as if there’s a message waiting to be decoded. The employment records from Mack’s are similarly bleak and uninteresting.

The flat is stifling. Sam stands, flings open a window, takes off his jacket and shirt where wisdom would tell him to rug up. He drags his hands against his jeans and goes for the pyjama bottoms crumpled in a heap below his mirror.

When the question echoes through his mind, he groans and sits with his back against the wooden headboard.

_What’s Gene up to?_

Well, knowing Gene, he’s probably terrorising his neighbours, making designs on storming after anyone and everyone who has - in his estimation – mistreated him, and being an uncouth loud-mouthed prick. Sam balls his fists up, flings his head back, and wills himself not to think about other things Gene might be doing – bringing himself to full hardness, fantasising about Sam’s lips around his cock, hating himself and Sam for it.

It’s four in the morning before sleep finally overtakes him, catapulting him into a world of mercilessly dreamless black. But he doesn’t get to sleep for long. He jolts awake when the Cortina horn sounds and he’s forced to haphazardly collect fresh clothes. He doesn’t shave. He clatters to the street, looking like he might just live there.

“Sorry, DI Tyler, would’ve come later, but there’s been a development. DS Carling ordered me to come over quick-smart.”

“I’ll knock his head into a filing cabinet ‘til he forgets your number,” Sam promises.

“And address,” Leonard adds, opening the car door for Sam.

The trip is quick and familiar. Sam and Gene share a glance as they both realise where they’re going.  
The car comes to a stop and Leonard stays still, but indicates for Sam and Gene to depart. They stand on the sidelines, watching as tarpaulin is placed down and the body rolled onto it. Even from this distance it’s easy to see it’s a man, same height – or rather, length – as Nick, same hair colour. Bloated and grey. Ray raises his thumb to them surreptitiously in confirmation.

Sam knows that the responsibility he feels is artificially constructed. It’s not his fault, not really. Nick didn’t die simply because of his association with them. Nick was a fence, a criminal, a friendly and warm bloke most days than not, who was making a living – the wrong living, but he had to survive somehow. It’s rare that Sam truly considers that the victims they find are people, men and women with lives not dissimilar to his own. When he does, he loses focus and plots revenge. Justice is not about being a vigilante. But then, Sam does have a shiny badge.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sam starts, turning to Gene. “Maybe we’ve been going at this from the wrong angle. Why chase the bastards down when we can have them come to us?”

“What’s the plan?” Gene asks, curiosity piqued.

“We feed a bit of our own misinformation.”

“Go on…”

“Let’s say we have a shop that’s gonna be getting a brand new shipment of something rich and sparkly. Diamonds, or amethysts, or golden monkeys, who knows? Something that’d attract cocksure and crazed criminals…”

Gene narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “Lay a trap.”

“Exactly.”

“You can be devious, you can, when you put your mind to it.”

Sam grins and for a second it’s like Gene’s forgotten everything that’s gone between them, because he smiles back. This is them again, two antagonists who manage to make a partnership work. Sam wonders if he _could_ act like there’d been no fumbling in the dark, if this isn’t the only way to ever bring them back to normalcy. But then Gene’s expression reverts to caution and alarm with a not-so-silver lining of abhorrence and Sam knows that there’s no way they could ever be the same again. _Mort_ and _la petite mort_ have changed them irrevocably.

“I’ll have a talk with Chris. See if I can’t get some firearms on our side.”

When he was training to be on the force, Sam won an award for his organisational skills. It was a prank, a joke at his expense, made by those who found his anal retentive nature obnoxious, but Sam thinks of it in moments like these, when it all seems a little too much like hard work; daunting and all-encompassing.

Throughout the day he co-ordinates, he discusses, he convinces. He sinks himself into it, becoming wholly engrossed in details and necessities. He’s in his element, he’s busy, he’s ignoring Gene’s constant barbs in Leonard’s direction, because at any second he’s about to snap and announce to the world that Gene belongs in a minority group himself so he can shut the fuck up.

After what seems like too long, they have a base of operations, a persuasive frontman - Jack, who owes several hundred pounds worth of favours - and Gene has spread the word in an elaborate mimicry of Chinese Whispers. The minor errors that wind themselves into the final message add to the authenticity and everything’s set up just the way Sam wants it.

Sam tells himself things are bound to go wrong if he ruminates on it. The less he worries, the less chance there will be. They have a couple of days in pocket because they know from the previous instances that the trio case the joint thoroughly first, learning routines and procedures. Sam’s not especially superstitious, but he knocks on wood.

“Oi, Beethoven, are you gonna stand around like a spare part, or are you gonna get involved?” Gene asks as they wait in the thankfully cavernous back room of the jewellery store.

“You don’t have to do anything, Leonard,” Sam asserts.

“I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow. “Do you have the patience of a saint?”

“You helped me once, Sam,” Leonard says. Sam notices the change of name and smiles grimly, wishing he could be warmer. He did help Leonard, once, but only after placing him in trouble in the first place. It seems to be the main pattern in his life – destroy and then assist, if he’s lucky.

“You can make the tea,” Gene snarls, flinching as he adjusts position. “Shouldn’t be above your level of skill.”

“Back pain?” Sam asks, feigning innocence.

“Yeah, gets like that when I think someone’s about to stab,” Gene retorts.

Another evening descends. Gene goes to his large, empty house. Sam goes to his small, empty flat. Sam shoves as much of his furniture to the sidelines as possible, trying to give the illusion of space.

That night he dreams of choking to death on dust, awaking with his hands wrapped around his throat. He stumbles into the bathroom and vomits all over the floor, missing the toilet bowl in a spectacular show of ineptitude. Sam gazes at the telephone and his fingers itch. Gene must know what he’s going through, he might have an idea of how to combat it. He’d most likely tell Sam to stop being a pansy and then follow with a string of abuse.

Sunlight filters in through the window and Sam doesn’t remember when he drifted off enough to wake up to it. He showers and shaves, dresses himself with more exactness than he has on other days, readies himself for a new day and a different direction.

There’s a buzz in the air at the jewellery shop. Sam crosses his fingers to it being adrenaline. Gene has gone the opposite of Sam; looks worn out and used, more irritable than usual. He snipes like he has a degree in malignance.

“You could always try kicking it up a notch,” Sam suggests after one especially violent threat involving the legs on a chair, a rubber duck, and reaming. He glints at Gene, holding his gaze, silently challenging him. Gene hastily looks away. Leonard crosses his arms and pretends to ignore them.

It’s the sound of a scuffle that alerts their attention. A strangled call and syncopated crash. All three men leap to their feet, but Leonard’s the only one with speed on his side. He flings himself through the door before Sam can warn him against it, waving a gun he doesn’t know how to use in the air. Gene, who was situated closer to the door, is next.

Sam rushes as fast as his weakened body allows to see a tall black-haired man matching the description given to them of Billy Baker pointing his shooter at Leonard’s head, Gene scowling and beginning to push Leonard to the ground, and smoke from a barrel. Sam doesn’t know what’s happened. He launches himself at the audacious tosser with thick-set shoulders, jabbing a right-hook and swinging his leg at his knee. The man crashes into a kneeling position and Sam lands him to the ground with a well-placed boot to the teeth. Sam determines him to be unconscious and immediately spins on the spot to aid his colleagues.

“You alive?” Sam asks, hushed, hand firm on Gene’s shoulder as he rolls him off Leonard.

“The jury’s still out on that one,” Gene returns and Sam almost sobs with relief. There isn’t a mark on Gene – not an additional one, at least.

“You’re a legend,” Sam chokes, teeth wide and bright in an otherwise anxious face.

“Been telling you that for months, you raging nancy-boy.”

Leonard looks dazed and winded, but he’s intact. Sam’s about to help him up when he catches movement in his peripheral vision. The man that Sam feels sure is Baker has shambled to his feet and instead of doing the wise thing and scarpering, is edging towards Sam with malice in his glare.

Sam cracks. Every last vestige of aggression Sam has grasps onto his propriety and he yells as he pushes his upper body into collision with Baker’s. He screams as he punches him in the throat, then rocks Baker’s head straight into his bent knee. This time, Baker is definitely unconscious, his breathing shallow and blood gushing out his nose.

Gene regards Sam with an expression that is vaguely terrified and impressed in equal measure.

“I think this calls for a curry,” Gene exclaims as Sam helps him up.

“You’ll wanna hold off on food,” a voice says meekly. Three sets of eyes turn to the erstwhile shopkeeper, Jack. “That bloke just said he’s set a bomb.”

“What?”

“He said there’s a bomb,” Leonard repeats.

“I know what he sodding said,” Gene barks. “How? Where?”

“You’ll have to ask him, I’m afraid.”

It’s only at that moment that Sam realises Jack’s bleeding from a wound set just below his heart.


	5. Billy Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from The Decemberists' song, which in turn is most likely a reference to the book by Keith Waterhouse. Intertextuality out the wazoo.

Sam isn’t especially happy to find himself once more in a hospital room. The air still smells grey, though now he can detect sub-smells of excrement and blood that the liberal dose of disinfectant and detergent are attempting to mask. Unlike the days he spent here, where human contact was minimal and contained, there are several people housed in the cramped area; a bed-bound man, himself, Gene, Leonard and Nurse Gloria

In an adjacent room is Billy Baker, despite Sam’s vehement remonstration against such an action. Billy has remained unconscious, is currently deemed harmless, and they don’t have any other space. There are two uniformed police officers stationed there by Ray on direct orders given by the Super.

“Is he gonna die?” Leonard asks, pointing at Jack with wide eyes.

“No,” Gene says quietly. Sam can tell he doesn’t believe it.

Jack lies, skin blanket white and limbs unmoving. He reminds Sam of when he first saw Gene after their rescue and Sam turns to concentrate on the heart-rate monitor. He sees Gene patting Jack’s foot in his peripheral vision.

“You’ll be right as rain in the morning.” Gene takes a deep breath and claps his hands together. “Right, time to get some answers out of the gobshite across the way.”

A voice halts their movement. “Mr Hunt, I’m not entirely sure that’s a good idea.”

The doctor. Sam glares at him, sucking in his cheeks and imagining something unpleasant he heard once involving some chair legs, a rubber duck, and reaming.

“You have sustained a great deal of trauma in the short period you’ve spent outside the hospital. You belong in a bed of your own,” the doctor continues.

“I’ll delegate the really rough stuff,” Gene replies, rolling his eyes.

“Really, Mr Hunt, I have to put my foot down,” the doctor asserts, taking hold of Gene’s arm.

Before Sam can say or do anything to stop him, Gene pretends reconciliation. He leans closer to the doctor and grasps his shoulder. A second later he lifts his good foot and brings it down on the doctor’s with a grunt.

The doctor shrieks in pain and bends over, his eyes watering. Gene roughly shoves him closer to Jack’s bed as he gestures towards Gloria.

“Get the other officers in here,” the doctor says in the strangled voice of humiliation.

Gloria scuttles out of the room and returns with the unsuspecting plods.

“Do anything and die,” Gene snarls.

The woodentops remain wooden, both scared rigid.

“Don’t know what’s going on, Sir,” one states bravely.

“This man is under arrest!” the doctor screams. Sam bites his lip to keep a handle on his burgeoning amusement.

“No, he’s not. Go back to guarding Baker - that’s where you’re really needed,” Sam says, taking charge. The woodentops follow his orders with rapid strides. The doctor opens his mouth in outrage, but Sam silences him with a warning finger. “Your attempt to manhandle my colleague here could be construed as assaulting a police officer. Such an action carries an instant prison sentence.”

The doctor flounders, Gene nods at Sam, showing appreciation for the support, and the woodentops bound back into the room.

“He’s gone!”

Sam slaps his hand against his face and drags it down, groaning. His life is a ‘Carry On’ film with slightly less innuendo and more sobbing.

They don’t run. They want to run. They limp. And order for all exits to be sealed. And yell some obscenities – though mostly that’s Gene, snatching a crutch from a nearby elderly man and thundering down the corridor. Sam catches him up and adds more of his support, which consists of shouting for people to get out of the way and opening doors. The doctor doesn’t follow or try to stop them and Sam hopes that indicates he’s learnt his lesson.

It takes fifteen minutes, but eventually Leonard finds Billy in one of the many cleaner’s closets, amongst cloth and mops. Gene grabs him by the scruff of his neck and hauls him onto a trolley.

Billy’s the kind of man who thinks creating fear is a perfectly acceptable form of human expression, but he doesn’t appreciate the technique being used on him. He squints at Gene with his piggy eyes, wrinkles his piggy nose, and when Gene twists his finger, squeals like a pig. He reminds Sam of bacon, freshly fried.

“A bomb, Billy. What of it?”

“Not gonna tell you nothing.”

“Oh dear, is that the case? Guess I’ll have to sort it so that you are going to tell us something.”

Billy opens his mouth and Gene sticks his finger in at the corner, making Billy his fish on a hook. He drags him to the opposite wall before he has time to bite and smashes his head three times, pauses, and then shoves four more times for good measure.

“Bomb. You. Answers. Now,” Gene booms, rubbing his spit-drenched hand on his trouser leg.

Blood gurgles out of Billy’s mouth as he speaks. “Set to go off at four, Roach Textiles, Heathfield Road.”

“Today?”

“Yeah.”

The uniformed police officers come around the corner, mercifully holding cuffs and listening intently to Gene’s orders that they extract some very specific information. He wants Billy’s accomplices and he wants them yesterday. They haul Billy back towards his room and he doesn’t stop them, possibly out of desperation to get as far away from Gene as possible.

“Another textiles factory – has to be a link,” Sam says, but Gene acts like he can hardly see him.

“I am not going to let them explode another part of my city,” he mutters, cracking his knuckles. “Better get on the blower to Ray, organise bomb squad, evacuate the area.”

It’s the most organised Sam has ever seen him.

“Why’re they doing it?” Leonard questions, his lips pursing together and his forehead furrowed as he props himself under Gene’s arm without being asked. “Shouldn’t we ask him?”

“Who gives a toss?”

“I do, for one,” Sam interjects, following them down the corridor at a steady pace. “If we know why, we can predict how and where and what the weather’ll be like and any other query we’ve got.”

Gene stares at him, this time seeing him, with utter contempt in the expression. “Oh yeah, Samuel, find out that Billy’s mother used to spank his little bottie and we’ve all the ammunition we need for why he’d turn criminal.”

“I was thinking more in the way of monetary value.”

“Right then, Gladys, you go ask. Make sure you find out which shampoo he uses and the last flick he saw down the Odeon. Leave the real work to the big boys.”

Sam tilts his head and looks up at the ceiling. He could let Gene’s words get to him, or he could do his job.

He does a little of both. He quickly scrawls out a list of questions on his notepad to press into the hand of one of the bobbies, then rushes to get to the Cortina before Leonard puts the pedal to the metal. Since arriving to help on that first fateful day, Leonard has turned into a full-fledged maniac on the roads, a fact that appears to please Gene immensely. Sam wonders if it’s the car, the pressure, or Gene practicing hypnotism. Traffic is clogged and Leonard darts from clear space to free spot like a man possessed.

They have three hours and it seems like this is a day when everyone who ever thinks they might need a tub of margarine or canister of vim decides this is the very minute to buy it. Sam never noticed how many people were to be found on the streets of Manchester until ruminating on the risk of them losing limbs. Children, above all, skipping between parents with high-pitched voices screaming delight, cause a chill to shudder down his spine.

They screech to a halt across the street from Roach’s, already cordoned off. Ray’s there, looking flustered. Chris is obviously trying to be helpful, shooing people away from the cordon in an exaggerated mime. They shrug their shoulders and stare blankly at him, even as he waves his badge.

“There might be a big bang soon,” Chris says to the elderly woman in front of him, spreading his hands in a mushroom cloud. “Well, not that soon, a couple of hours, but it’s really best you get along now, or you’ll get bits of plaster in your hairnet.”

“I wanna see it!” she responds, like nails scraping down a washboard.

“No you sodding well do not,” Gene shouts, right by her ear. She jumps and smashes him with her bag.

“Nasty swine! Give a woman a heart-attack!”

“If that shifts you, I’ll go again louder,” Gene barks. She gives him a look that suggests she’s thinking of hitting him again, but she shuffles away, grumbling the entire time. Gene turns back to the members of CID attempting to evacuate the area, managing to make his hobbling impressively menacing. He’s at maximum projection, which Sam likens to the trumpet of an angry elephant through a megaphone. “Is it just me or are you lot totally bloody useless?”

Sam leaves Gene to co-ordinate, knowing he’d only be seen as getting in the way, and looks at Leonard staring anxiously towards the opposite building.

“Leonard? Go home. We’ll be waiting a while – it’s not like we’ll need to be driven anywhere, but if we are, we can always get one of the boys to take us.”

Leonard turns to him, eyes cold. “I’ll be fine.”

“Look, you never signed up for this.”

“You’re as bad as he is, in your own way,” Leonard mutters, moustache quivering as he sticks his thumb in Gene’s direction.

“What? I most certainly am not.”

“Yeah, you are, Sam.”

Sam stares at Leonard. Of all the conceited, pig-headed, ungrateful… he checks himself. Maybe Leonard has a point.

“I’m just trying to make sure you come out of this intact,” he says, sounding more wounded than he intends to.

“Noble gesture, I’m sure. You’ve protected me before, I know you have, but this –” Leonard points at his hearing aid, “doesn’t suddenly make me useless.”

“I never suggested it did. I just --- you’re not a copper.”

“Tell me when coppers who aren’t on bomb squad were magically more equipped to deal with things going bang and I’ll bow down to your wisdom.”

Sam twitches. Part of him wants to pat Leonard on the back and another wants to punch him out. “Not leaving, then?”

“No.”

“You’re either brave or insane.”

Leonard grins, making Sam feel it’s definitely the latter, but then he squares his shoulders. “I’ve not had many experiences. Not many positive ones. I’ve been on the outskirts all my life. Here, I’m a part of something.”

Sam swallows. He wants to tell Leonard that the ‘something’ isn’t wonderful. The ‘something’ brings to mind tight, confined spaces and dust – so much dust – and words that shouldn’t have been spoken and actions that shouldn’t have been taken. And blood. And pain. And a situation that means Gene isn’t talking to him, not like he once did. He stares at Gene and envies him his total absorption. Sam’s mind is swirling with hundreds of thoughts clamouring for attention; what it felt like, not feeling his feet, how his throat was blocked, how he was so sure he was going to die, how he was so sure Gene was dead.

Sam takes a deep breath, rubs his sore eyes, and suddenly, running around playing cop doesn’t seem all that fun anymore. Better to leave it to the professionals.

No. What’s he thinking? He’s Sam Tyler: Duracell Bunny, powering on whilst all other bunnies power down. Except that it’s years before this analogy will make sense to those around him. And actually, would probably garner him a glare and a punch.

Bomb squad arrive within the hour, suitably kitted up. They canvas the area, tell Gene to get back beyond the cordon with everyone else. Gene Hunt doesn't do compromise. He's not best pleased. He rants about it for an hour or more, head moving more erratically than usual as he attempts to look at everything at once. Sam might describe him as furtive, if he ever thought such a description could be used without Gene instinctively knowing and striking him down.

“You’re looking queasy,” Gene says, eyeing Sam quickly and proffering his flask.

“Feeling queasy,” Sam admits.

“Girl.”

“Are you always this supportive or is this a new trait brought on by brain damage?”

Gene grabs the flask off Sam as he’s mid-swig and places it back in his pocket. “Wanna talk about it?” he mocks, lip curling derisively.

“Surely you must have some idea how I feel,” Sam says. Despite his very best attempt at giving the impression, Gene is not an emotionless lump of clay. Sam knows this from personal experience.

“I never know how _you_ feel,” Gene says. The tone of his voice gives the impression he’s not joking.

As time passes, Sam gets more wound up. The memories overcome him and he can sense his grip on calm reflection of what’s happening beginning to dwindle. A horrible thought occurs to him – the art of misdirection. What if Billy had said Roach’s to get them off the track? He’d have to be mad, surely, but then, you had to be mad to knowingly endanger a DCI and DI, right? And it isn’t just Billy, there are two others working with him, and he and Gene and Leonard - they haven’t done any research, they don’t really know who they’re up against, and they have those employment records they’ve never properly looked through, that Gene would never look through, and this is another textiles factory, there _has_ to be a connection, and within the hour, if bomb squad can’t defuse the bomb, there will be another explosion, and no, he isn’t in the damn building this time, but he’s still _close_.

He tells himself to suck it up and grow a pair. It’s almost like Gene speaking in his mind. He wouldn’t put it past him.

Sam glances at his watch, then the building, then his watch again. Twenty minutes to go.

“This is all too sickeningly familiar.”

“Good thing there’s no one here for you to taunt,” Gene grunts. “On second thoughts, Little Lenny, how’d you like to do some reconnaissance work?”

Leonard ignores him. Sam wonders if he’s turned off his hearing aid to get some peace. He wishes it were an option he could take, even better if it could drown out his own inner voice.

Bomb squad are scattered to the right and the left when the explosives go off, fifteen minutes before schedule. There a plume of smoke and dust, a sudden rush of fire spiralling into the sky. Sam’s aware of shouting above the thumping of his heart. Leonard stands tall beside him, looking on in horror. Sam looks at Gene and sees a reflection of his own shock replaced by anger.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Gene roars. Sam can’t help but think it’s true.


	6. The Perfect Crime #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should warn for imaginary places that do not exist in Manchester. In this series there are imaginary places that do not really exist in Manchester.

The clean-up is immense. No one lost their life, or their limbs, but there are several injuries and several ambulances ready to take those who've been caught in the explosion. There's no discussion on the drive to the hospital and Leonard says goodbye with a distracted wave, as if he's guilty that he's going, but too overwhelmed not to. He frowns and motions vaguely and says he'll be back, early, as early as possible, but for now he has to go. Sam understands. His vested interest is both surging and ebbing. On the one hand, he wants to nail these bastards. On the other, he's too fraught to lift the hammer.

It seems like half the station's there, amongst cotton sheets and bed pans, and Sam collapses into a chair next to Chris and Annie, manila folders clasped under his arm.

"I think these might help," he says lamely. He'd love to give a rousing speech of victory, but his predictive skills say that this will never happen, not on this case. These cases. This whole, horrid mess.

"I'll give you a hand sorting through them," Annie offers, pulling one of the folders away from Sam and flicking through its contents. "Chris, could you get us paper and pens?"

Chris only just appears to hear her. "Ray," he says. A typically Chris-like divergence from the conversation at hand, but said in a tone of horror. Sam frowns and looks at him properly. Chris is staring into middle space. "He almost died like that. But he still goes on every day, like nothing happened. How's he do it?"

"I've balls made of brass," Ray says, coming out of the men's toilets and cupping his crotch. Sam rolls his eyes. For a moment, he had worked up to a form of admiration. It did take guts to come away from the experience a functioning member of society. But Ray can fold his three dimensions up like reverse origami, giving the illusion of a flat piece of paper.

After an hour of rifling through pages, Sam is pretty sure he's gone cross-eyed. He notices a twinge in his joints just as he completes writing out an extensive list of information on the people who used to work at Mack's.

He knows where Gene is. He tries not to think about it. Communication is the key, here, but communication means breaking through Gene's impenetrable wall of disgust and distrust and he doesn't think he has the strength. It's vital that they share this, though, so he stands eventually, making his way to Billy's room.

Billy is uglier with two black eyes. He's also free with a lot of information.

"Old Mack's son," he slurs as Sam walks into the room. "That's who asked us to start it. Create decoys, he said. His building. Why not blow it up? Didn't know you'd be there. That were a mistake."

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on."

"I mean it," Billy shouts, urgent, desperate. He's had Gene's fist in his face too many times to sound anything else. The hospital staff have been paid handsomely for a little seclusion. Sam knows. He paid them. "Let the police deal with local destruction and make a killing in the betting shops, the banks, jewellery shops, whatever we felt like."

"Like killing, do you?" Gene asks. His voice is level and quiet. It disturbs Sam more than the shouting, far more than the punching.

"Never killed anyone."

"Nick Park."

"Not me. That was Tim. He's got a screw loose."

"And so will you." Gene smiles, oddly manic. He jerks his head to the side and his neck cracks, the noise ominous.

"Tim who?" Sam questions before Gene can do anything else, his finger poised over the list he's compiled.

"Parker. Used to work for Mack."

"Now, why didn't you say that before?"

Sam closes his eyes for a moment, thinking that if he can't see it, the sound will evaporate too. When he opens them, Billy's bleeding again, from a cut across his cheek this time. This is bordering on a line Sam can't cross. He's felt like punching before, has done so in self defence, got positively enthusiastic about belting that pompous doctor, but this is beyond that. This is veering into a territory that no one can come back from. It's torture. It's wrong. They need to know more.

"And the other one, who's the other one?"

"Mack's son himself, Jamie."

"Billy, Tim, and Jamie?" Gene asks, not really asking. "Just little boys, really, aren't you? Little boys with big ideas that go boom in the night. Or the day. Or whenever you bleeding feel like it, ripping people's lives apart." He raises his arm again, but this time Sam catches it.

"No, Gene."

Gene throws him off, into a respirator. "Yes." He turns back to Billy. "Addresses."

Billy casts his gaze nervously from Gene to the door. "If I do that, I'm dead."

"You're dead already."

Gene wraps his hands around Billy and pulls him into an upright position, slamming into the back of his neck with an elbow. Billy screams, and the wail travels, strangled and intense, piercing through the air.

"Stop, for Christ's sakes, you're gonna kill him," Sam yells, only just managing to stand back up. He heaves in a breath as he stares at Gene. Gene Hunt doesn't do restraint.

"Walpole Avenue." Billy shudders. He cowers from Gene's presence. He's bigger than Gene, but he's also cuffed to the metal railings of his bed. And Gene has the advantage of rage and adrenaline on his side. Sam can see it coursing through him. He's not of his right mind.

"Another textiles factory," Sam says, voice hushed this time. His brain's working faster than his tongue can.

"They're all owned by Mack," Billy chokes out. "Least the deeds on the buildings are, if not the actual businesses."

"But the one in Walpole Avenue's still going."

"Yeah."

"So when you said address, you don't mean that's the next one?"

"No. Least, I hope not. Least, Jamie didn't say. It's where we've had all our meetings, in the manager's office. There'd be no one there now. We'd another meeting tomorrow morning."

Sam leans against the doorjamb, his head rattling.

"So tell us where they'll be this second," Gene interjects.

"I don't know. I don't know where they live, they don't know where I live."

"I don't believe you."

Billy's rhythm of speech echoes that of a terrified man. "It's the truth."

"I really don't believe you."

Gene glowers down at Billy and Sam can see something that makes him more than slightly uncomfortable.

"Gene, let's go. Now. Come on. We'll have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and-"

"I'm not going until I've wrenched every last drop from this dishrag."

"You already have," Sam says a second before Billy can. He places his hand firmly around Gene's wrist. "I know you're angry, but it isn't worth this."

Gene laughs, hollow and loud. He looks into Sam's eyes for the first time in hours and whole sections of him are dead. There's no sense of humour, no brash indifference. Just hatred, injustice, a glowing ember of something else that could be bloodlust. He goes to drag his hand away, but Sam won't let go. He digs his nails in.

"There is nothing else for us to do here. The others are outside and they'll keep watch."

"They won't need to if he's stuffed into a body bag."

Sam smoothes out his tone. "There'll be a shitload of paperwork if we have to stuff him into a body bag."

Gene has clearly thrown rational thought out the window. Or maybe he's more rational than Sam. "So? Not our job is it? Not anymore. Not for ages. Thanks to him and his pals."

"Even still…"

"Even still, what?"

Sam can't curb his rising hysteria any longer. He lets go, lurches forward, eyes wide and pleading. "You can't _kill_ him."

Gene raises his eyebrows and walks out of the room. Sam stares after him.

"Gene? Gene!"

He storms out of the room, intent to catch Gene up no matter what it takes, but Gene's just outside the doorway.

"Your flat," Gene says, curtly. He has a few words with Ray and tells Sam to hail a cab.

The conversation they don't have in the cab is like every other conversation they've never had - a mountain to climb, a stream to ford, a city to rape and pillage. It's vast. It stretches between them and expands, until they may as well be sitting on two different continents.

Gene storms into Sam's flat before Sam can hardly get his key in and whirls around on Sam rapier quick. Sam can't comprehend where he's drawing it from, the endless supply of life-force. He feels battered and used, the other side of crumpled.

Gene casts a glance around the flat and his expression registers surprise, but he doesn't say anything about the moved furniture and Sam doesn't offer an explanation. Instead, Gene launches straight into his barrage.

"What was that about?"

"What?"

"You can't _kill_ him." Gene's imitation is high-pitched, unflattering, melodramatic, but accurate. Sam can sense seven levels of mockery invested in it.

"I was trying to bring you back to reason," Sam mutters. He glares, crossing his arms despite the broken rib, the burst of agony adding a wince to his expression that works well with his emotions.

Gene snorts. "You're really as stupid as you look, aren't you? I was winding him up. You've seen me do it before."

"Not like that. You were beating him to a pulp."

"He deserves it."

"No. He doesn't. He deserves gaol time, but ritual torture?"

"You're a fucking hypocrite. I didn't see you complaining when he was coughing it all up."

"It's 'cause you weren't bothering to look." Sam tries to slow his words, but he can't. "You lost your head, admit it."

"If I'd really lost my head, we wouldn't be speaking right now."

"We're hardly speaking at all. Shouting, yelling, berating, like we always do. No time for discussion between us, oh no. Just a word here, a punch there, the possibility of murder, but that's okay if it's in the name of _revenge_. Not justice, Gene, like you so claim, but cold-blooded retribution - pound for a pound."

Sam knows he's pushed Gene too far. Gene's ability to calm down has shattered and he's close on berserk. The bloodlust has returned to his gaze. He hits Sam like he means to murder him, and Sam hits back, striking out for any flesh he can. His knuckles ache and his chin's sore, but it's _right_. This is what they had before any of this began. The physical expression that said everything they needed to say. It's a lie, but it makes him feel better.

"I could kill you with a punch," Gene says suddenly.

"Do it, then," Sam replies. He laughs, the sound thick and muffled. "Make your life easier, wouldn't it?"

Gene sounds strained, like a twig on the verge of snapping. "You really think I'm capable of it."

"I think you've proved that with the proper motivation you're capable of anything, Gene."

Gene slams Sam into the wall, hands under his armpits, face only inches away.

"Anything at all," he grinds out, then crushes Sam's lips with his own.

It happens so fast, Sam doesn't really know how. His jeans are around his ankles and he's faced the other way; Gene's spitting on his own hand.

"I'm gonna fuck you, Tyler," Gene says, as if it should be a threat - but it's not. Not at all.

"Okay, then," Sam responds, casual as he can. He feels Gene hesitate, a hand still on his hip. "If you have to," Sam adds with a smirk. He doesn't feel as smug as he's pretending to. He doesn't feel much but his nerve-endings coming alive at Gene's touch. How has it got to this? When had he stopped paying attention?

Gene presses a finger into him carefully - considerably more carefully than his earlier actions had suggested he would. Sam tells himself it's because Gene's never done this before, there isn't a measure of concern for his welfare in it. The second finger slides in and Gene starts moving faster, fucking him with his fingers, and that's when Sam decides to wonder where Gene picked up the gay sex tips, or whether his instinct really is that good. Sam opens up for him, finding it ironic that the flesh is willing where the will is weak.

He feels Gene's cock a minute later, hot and thick, pushing past his resistance. Sam irrationally thinks about how this is stranger than 1973. It hurts like 1973 hurts - makes him feel vulnerable, out of place. But it's also amazing like 1973 is, unexpectedly amazing, and at the same time as being out of place, he fits. The best kind of contradiction; one that constantly surprises. It takes time for Gene to ease completely into him, more time than Sam was expecting would be taken. He clenches and his breath catches in his throat as Gene pulls out.

"Admit it - this is what you really want," Gene spits, fury and lust converging to give his voice a gravelled edge Sam has never heard before.

Sam wants to disagree, but can't. A part of him he can't control is relishing it. His body is responding in ways he didn't know were possible. His heart batters five times the acceptable rate and his muscles are at once tense and relaxed. This is what he really wants.

Gene drives in brutally and Sam drives back, fingernails scrabbling at the wallpaper. With an energy Sam can't explain the origin of, Gene rants and moves at the same time. He punctuates every three words with a hard thrust, and Sam listens to it, loves that Gene's finally talking to him. His arousal crescendos as Gene shifts against him, within him, with him. He meets his movements, as active as Gene is, the palms of his hands now set against the wall as he uses it for leverage.

"We almost blew up again today, Tyler. That makes a total of four times since I've known you that my life's been jeopardised by bastards with bombs. That's not even mentioning guns, knives, and your incredibly long fucking _speeches_. I can only conclude you're a dangerous man."

Sam can hardly think straight, but he grits his teeth, fire licking up his spine. "You love danger," he manages. "You thrive on it."

There's no verbal answer. Gene roughly fists Sam's cock and presses his lips to Sam's sweat-slick neck, slowing down for a series of long strokes. Sam keens, his throat scratched and dry. It's so good. He had no _idea_. Gene picks up the pace again, going harder and faster. His breath's hot and brushes against the fine hairs where his lips just were. The solid heat of his chest rubs against Sam's back, shirt buttons grazing against polyester. And he pushes, he presses, at just the right angle.

Sam comes with a shout, the feeling so intense everything in him weakens, not just the muscles in his legs. His resolve. His need to always be right. They all dissipate. Gene follows shortly after, clutching onto Sam's shoulder as he shudders for the last time.

They disentangle and don't look each other as they clean up. Gene leaves without a word.


	7. The Sporting Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a fan of Blackadder, you'll recognise a section of this.

Sam wants to embrace Leonard. He's so _great_. He's reliable. He's friendly. He doesn't harbour any ill-will towards him. Sam might be inclined to say he's lovely. He offers him the bottle instead and smiles inanely as Leonard takes it, has a swig, then sets it back on the shelf.

"Ready to go?" Leonard asks, perfunctorily.

"Always," Sam replies. He crinkles up his nose and it strikes him that his 'always' comes out as more slur than word.

"You're cut," Leonard observes.

"Like a ribbon."

Leonard doesn't immediately pass judgement. He goes to Sam's kitchenette and scrabbles with the coffee. "He's waiting down there, you know," he says, nodding towards a window.

Sam rolls his eyes and shrugs. "He can wait."

"How long've you been drinking?"

"Long as possible."

"No, I mean, that's just one small scotch bottle. Is your constitution really that weak?"

"I'm not weak." Sam wavers, trying to concentrate on the carpet, but it swirls around maddeningly and makes him visualise himself throwing up. There are carrot chunks. There are always carrot chunks. He hasn't eaten carrot for weeks. "I'm brave," he continues. "I'm a hard man."

Leonard hands him the coffee and Sam shakes it a couple of times. Not a clever idea, he realises, as it sloshes over the rim. Funny, that. "Should be giving me water. Coffee's useless."

"Drink it," Leonard commands and Sam doesn't have the verve to argue, so he doesn't, just does as he's told like a good little boy, because that's what he is --- a little boy playing a big man's game and losing, losing like a fool.

No, he's not a boy, he's a _toy_ , a plaything, to be used and discarded at will. Duracell Bunny! Of course! The batteries can come out, the bunny can be put on the shelf, and it's bright fucking pink. Perfect analogy after all.

Leonard snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face and Sam looks up, dazed. Was he saying something? Doing something? They needed to be somewhere, he knows that. It was to bring down Jamie Mack and Tim Parker. Not supposed to be retribution, but is gearing itself up that way, because the fuckers deserve it and he doesn't --- he doesn't deserve this shit, to be treated like shit, and he isn't going to stand for it any longer.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, answering a request Leonard hasn't made.

In the car he doesn't look at Gene, because Gene's a tossbag and can go jump and Sam's better than that. No forlorn gazing. No asking what could've been. And nothing could really have been, could it, because Gene's an ignorant prick with the emotional intelligence of a gnat. But if he were going to look at Gene and say something, it might go along the lines of, 'I'm a man, you're a man, so fucking _what_?' Or maybe, 'once is an accident, twice is understandable, but _three times_?' Wanker.

Leonard stops the car and Sam vomits at the side of the road. Gene thunders something about them needing to get a move on, or else. The else isn't broken down into its component parts, but even in his alcohol-muddled haze, Sam can make an educated and experienced guess.

They arrive at Walpole Avenue with much fanfare and banging of drums. At least, that's how it seems to Sam, when the bins fall over and car doors are shoved open and slammed shut. Sam's handed a gun and he ensures that it's got ammunition. He checks that the safety's on. He concentrates on it and edges away from the fug hovering over his senses.

Time to be sensible Sam, dependable Sam. His head pounds. It clatters. It screeches. It does everything but work properly, far as Sam's concerned. Maybe he really is weak. He's acting like an idiot. Actually, he hasn't really done anything yet, nothing that couldn't be cleaned up with sawdust and a bucket. But he could do something seriously stupid.

"I'm not great." Sam closes his eyes for a moment as he leans against the bronze beast behind him.

"We can see that much, Gladys," Gene replies caustically.

"I should stay here," Sam asserts.

"I agree. If they try to make an escape, you nab 'em."

Sam looks up into Gene's eyes. He agrees? Gene stares back, unfazed, obviously irritated, but not as filled with hate as Sam was expecting.

"I'll give a shout if I see them."

"Another good idea. My, my, you're full of them today."

There it is. The ridicule, the scorn. Gene thinks he's a prat. And he is, so there's nothing to come back with. Sam straightens up, sets his shoulders and stands tall. They're going to catch Mack and Parker, and it's going to be a successful day.

Leonard and Gene make their way into the textiles factory, guns poised. Sam keeps a look-out. And there's someone who matches Mack's description, coming out a side door. Sam goes after him, is quiet as can be. Mack's heading towards a car, Sam can't let him go. He aims his gun and suddenly he's being dragged forward, unable to move his arms. Someone's come up behind him - has to be Parker.

"You're one of those coppers, aren't you?" a voice grates. Sam rams his elbow back and kicks, hard. He isn't released.

"Yeah, I am. What you're doing now is gonna see you in gaol for a long time," he replies. It's lame, he's lame, but he can't think straight.

"Nah," Mack says, grinning as he stuffs Sam into the boot of his car, despite Sam's constant thrashing. "We're gonna take you somewhere safe whilst we decide what to do."

Sam's been in the boot of a car before. Fumes from the exhaust work their way into the space and make it difficult to breathe. Mostly, it's tight, and small, and reminds him too much, just far too much, of concrete slabs crumbling around him and a cloak of dust in the air. Sam's breath hitches in his throat and he starts to kick, to really kick, as hard as he can, for freedom.

"Let me out," he screams as soon as the car comes to a stop.

"I think we should keep him in there," one of them says.

"No. We'll bring him in. We don't know if we want him dead yet. We might be able to use him as a bargaining chip."

Fuckers. They think it's going to be easy?

Except, it is. Terrifyingly so. He's weakened from the car fumes, and weak and broken anyway. He's drunk and he feels like shit. Sam's manhandled into the building and he tries to resist, but he can't. They restrain him against the wall, rope looping around rusted metal staples once used for something other than torture. At least, he hopes so.

Hours go by. He knows it's hours. At first, it might just be seconds and minutes that stretch on, but after a while the light changes and it's gone from morning to afternoon to evening. His mind clears, gradually, but determinedly, and swirls with myriad thoughts. All is not lost.

Sam watches as the shadows lengthen, surveying his surroundings, formulating plans. Cellar in an old warehouse, with grimy windows, a door to the main floor and another to the outside. He might be able to get to that one, depending on how long he's left alone, whether he'll be stuck here all night. He thinks he's close to getting his left hand free, the muscles in his forearm straining with the steady pressure he's exerting. His head's still hurting, but this time he has a fair idea that it's got nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with it being knocked about more than is strictly healthy.

He works at his restraints, not giving up, never giving up. "Why is it always me? For once - just once, I'd like it to be Gene. Or Ray. Or bloody Dennis at the front desk. But no, it's always sodding Tyler."

"Talking to yourself?" Mack asks, clattering down the steps.

"Yeah, what of it?"

"First sign of madness."

Sam yawns. It's not entirely fake. He's been up all of the night before, the intoxication's worn off, and Mack is boring with a capital ING. He's not as blasé when Mack advances and calls for Parker to help. In fact, his fear rises, the hackles at the back of his neck with it.

They untie him from the wall, but his feet and hands are quickly bound. Sam struggles but all that earns him is pistol-whip.

"We've decided you've gotta die."

"They will hunt you down like dogs and make you pay for it," Sam spits, another attempt at wrenching his arm free causing him to grunt.

"They can try. We have tickets out of here. Unlike you."

The gun barrel is aimed straight for his head. Figures. So this is death, then. Staring him in the eye. Again. It's like an old friend, almost. Has he not been returning phone calls? Pissed death off so much it decided to come round? Frequently. Maybe he's just lucky.

This is better than suffocation, he has to give it that. He's not being crushed to death. He's also alone. What a contrast to the earlier situation, where he hadn't been especially happy to be meeting his maker - a sadistic bastard, if ever there was one - but at least he'd had a companion, someone who trusted him, whom he trusted back. It doesn't seem fair that this time it will happen and he's got no one.

He wonders if Gene would be upset. Or angry. Or whether he'd be relieved. He'd like to think anger would be the main emotion - how dare they kill one of his own, a member of his team. But maybe, with everything that's gone between them, it wouldn't be that. Sam recalls the elements of tenderness in their late night rendezvous, how Gene's 'I'm gonna fuck you' ended up feeling so much more. It wasn't just Gene using him, was it? He was using Gene back. But, he wanted that connection.

He really is a girl. Instead of wondering whether Gene would miss him when he's dead, he should be ensuring he isn't to die. Sam attempts to lash out again, is poised to headbutt Parker, but gets slapped for his trouble. And then there's an almighty crash.

"Mack, Parker, pudding and pie, blew stuff up and made us cry. Killed a man, or was that two? What's a sheriff ever to do?"

Sam stares at Gene in disbelief. The man's audacious, if not completely insane. He stands - a demi-God - unafraid, blocking off the doorway. Mack faces him, but Parker keeps his eyes trained on Sam. And Sam can't help but let his admiration for Gene cloud over his uneasiness of having a gun in his face, at the same time irrationally annoyed that he has to be rescued.

"You don't quit, do you?" Mack asks. It's rhetorical, but Gene will answer.

"No."

"Well, neither do I. Tim?"

Sam can only look on in horror as Parker cocks his gun and everything happens at once in a flurry of sound and movement. There's the crack of gunshot through the air and Gene shouting his name as his body is dragged down to the ground, his head smashing against the concrete. Everything goes black.

When he opens his eyes, Gene's looking down at him, like some kind of angel, a halo of golden light around the top of his head. That thought alone makes Sam want to laugh and he does so, as much from relief as amusement.

"How am I not dead?"

"Lenny," Gene answers.

Sam looks at Leonard and his face splits in two. Leonard's standing with his arms crossed in front of two handcuffed criminals, looking very much like a champion. Sam rubs his newly-freed wrists.

"Dove right out in front of a bullet for you," Gene says, a note of wonderment in the words. "But luckily I got there first, redirected the gun towards the ceiling."

"So, both of you."

"Yeah." Gene steps back and lets him get up.

"How'd you find me?"

Gene rolls his eyes. "You have to know every last little detail, don't you? Well, first of all, my socks are grey and I think Leonard uses old spice." He pauses, steadying Sam with a hand around the top of his arm. "After we'd been to Mack and Parker's residences and deduced there was nothing going, we had a look through that stupid poncy list of yours and went to every bleeding address on there, asking people if they knew where we might go and finally someone twigged on the warehouse. Alright?"

Sam cranes his neck to the side, a dart of pain surging up his spine. "Alright."

"I'd say sorry for it taking so long, but it's your own stupid fault for getting taken in the first place."

"Thanks."

"Still off your face?"

"No. Startlingly sober, I'd say."

"There's a scotch with your name on it at my place, then."

Sam frowns. He doesn't know how to navigate the minefield of conflicting emotions, so he chooses not to. He accepts the invitation, although he suspects there isn't really a choice.

It appears Gene and Leonard are not alone. It seems like half of A-division's there, with much congratulatory handshaking. Mack and Parker are to be escorted to the station by Ray and Chris, where the evidence is stacked tall and ready to be used in any accusation they'd want to make.

"The Super said you weren't to interfere in any more cases until you're cleared by a doctor," Ray says solemnly as he pushes Mack into a marked police car with little regard for his head against the top of the door. "Though, personally, I'd not complain."

"Tell the Super I'll do exactly as he asks, when he asks, and that the pole's been warming for him by the oven."

Leonard drops Sam and Gene off at Gene's place, not thinking it strange, but then, he's never questioned what Sam was doing there in the first place. Sam likes that about him.

"You did a good job today, Leonard," Gene says sincerely.

"Thanks, DCI Hunt."

"I guess you lot have your uses after all."

It's the best they'll ever get. Sam knows it. Leonard knows it.

"Thank you," Sam says, shaking Leonard's hand as Gene goes indoors. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. You're a very brave man."

"Just returning the favour, Sam," Leonard says with a smile. "And this has been the most fun I've had… well, ever. Not just fun, though," he adds, when Sam quirks an eyebrow. "You take care of yourself."

He waves goodbye. Sam waves back and follows Gene into the house.

Sam settles onto the sofa, watches Gene's activities, and feels oddly like he might be the gazelle to Gene's lion. He's quick and he can kick, but the opposition has a massive set of paws and steady patience.

"How're you feeling?" Gene asks as he goes for one of his many scotch bottles.

"Like death warmed up."

"Not surprised, you bloody idiot. What were you thinking, eh? There are times and places for overnight benders, Tyler. You're not like me, you can't hold your liquor. Letting yourself be dragged off by morons…"

Sam does his best not to pout. He fails. "I can hold my liquor. It just weighed me down a little, is all."

"Least you've still got all your working parts."

"Most of 'em."

Gene looms near, as he's wont to do, pouring scotch into a glass. He hands it over. "Couple of days ago you said you wanted to talk."

Sam gazes. He doesn't really want to drink, but he has a sip anyway. It helps him respond. "Yeah."

Gene sits across from him. "Now's the time."

"Well, actually, I think the time's been and gone."

"Take the opportunity whilst it's offered, Sam. It'll never come again."

Sam accepts this, adjusting his position until he's sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, placing his glass by his feet.

"In the rubble of Mack's - did you really think you were gonna die?"

"Course I did."

"But you didn't."

"Clearly."

"Did that not occur to you? I mean… when you --- when we..?"

"Well, yeah, but I was gagging for it."

Sam feels a sickening twinge. He nods. "And any body would do, like you said. I was there, I'd made a pass…"

"I know you can be thick, but really..." The expression on Gene's face tells Sam everything he needs to know, but Gene continues anyway. "Much as I wish you hadn't, you saw through me straight away. Had to be you, Sam. Could've been down there with Ursula Andress and I'd've kept my trap shut and my hand still."

"Why?"

"I dunno, do I? Doesn't matter how often you prove you're a grade-A tosser, the Gene Genie rises to the occasion whenever you're around."

"So it's just sexual."

"For God's sake-"

Sam juts his chin forward. "You said this was my only time to ask, so I'm gonna ask it all."

Gene frowns, tilting the flask in his hand from right to left as if the sloshing contents dictate his thoughts. "If it were just sexual, why'd it be a bloke when I've been with birds all my life? Even if there've been instances…" he trails off.

"You said you'd never…" Sam falters. "But you knew what you were doing." He shifts uncomfortably, steepling his fingers in a sort of mock-prayer.

"Never touched another man, but there'd been --- I'd wanted to. When I was younger. Told myself it wasn't the way, that I wasn't that way, and I'd always been more interested in skirt anyway, so it were just a passing thing." Gene raises an eyebrow. There's the hint of a smile. "Read a book on it once, really illuminating stuff. You honestly telling me you've not thought about other blokes?"

"No, not really. Not until you. Crazy, right? The man from a more enlightened time not being in touch with his sexuality."

Gene stares, his gaze unnervingly precise. "Wouldn't've thought eight years made much difference." He pauses. "We shouldn't've. It's made life hell. That doctor's not the only one with an attitude that'd see us in a vat of hot oil. It's not just-" Gene stops again. "You know what they're like," he finishes, eyes on the carpet.

Sam agrees, but he knows it's time to confirm something that neither of them has been willing to, now that he knows it's true. The moment in the dark was not sprung from thin air. It was more a culmination of everything they'd danced around for over a month. Glints that were a little left of anger, punches that were more about connection than intention to maim.

"We'd been building up to it for weeks. It was inevitable. What else were we gonna do in the face of death - play word games?"

"Make a sentence with the following words, 'dick, I, stroke, wanna, your'."

The scotch ends up tipped all over the floor and Sam's desperate to tell Gene that this is everything he's ever wanted, in all its fucked up glory. But he doesn't. He waits until he catches his breath and pours out another measure of malt, picking up his glass and downing it in one go.

Gene watches him closely, fingers coiled around his lighter. "That it?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Good. Done. Like ripping off a band aid."

Gene pockets his lighter, leans forward, and presses a hand on Sam's for a brief moment before moving entirely and catching Sam in a quick kiss. Sam catalogues every feature of it, knowing it's the last one.

"Best be getting to bed - there's always new scum to catch in the morning."

Sam stands, stretching his well-worn limbs. "We're not allowed at the station."

"Never stopped me before."

Sam smiles softly. "I'll call a cab."

"Weren't you listening?" Gene wraps his arms around Sam, encasing him in warmth. "I said we'd best be getting to bed."

Sam stares for a long time. Gene is honest in staring back. They share an unspoken dialogue.

"I thought Gene Hunt doesn't do affection?" Sam says eventually, unable to articulate anything else. He's too full of hope and anticipation, and he doesn't want to shatter it.

"There was a time I'd've said Gene Hunt doesn't do it up the bum either, but I guess a man can change."

Sam grins. Subtle as a sledgehammer. He holds onto Gene tightly and they stumble up the stairs, together.


End file.
